


sonno / dannazione / vita

by werewolfkeeper



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loss of Parent(s), Name Changes, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:00:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22502155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werewolfkeeper/pseuds/werewolfkeeper
Summary: A worn, bound copy ofThe Egyptian Book Of The Deadsits on top of one of the paper stacks neatly cluttering the desk.The Book Of Emerging Forth Into The Light, Copia remembers.  The inside cover saysPapa Emeritus Nihilas many times as fills up the empty space in his mother's handwriting.(Written for #GhostAngstWeek2020.  Prompt isLife Eternal.)
Relationships: Cardinal Copia/Nameless Ghoul(s), Papa Emeritus Zero | Papa Emeritus Nihil/Sister Imperator
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	sonno / dannazione / vita

**Author's Note:**

> As always, [here's a translator](https://lingojam.com/ZalgoText) for anyone who struggles with Ghoul accents!

"W̷̶̴h̵̷̸a̴̵̴t̶̷̷'̵̶̴s̵̴̷ ̵̸̸w̷̶̷r̶̸̴o̵̵̷n̷̸̵g̴̷̷ ̷̵̷w̶̵̴i̸̶̷t̵̵̵h̶̸̴ ̵̸̴P̶̴̸a̵̶̵p̸̵̸a̶̴̶'̸̵̶s̴̵̵ ̸̷̴o̵̷̷f̸̷̶f̶̷̴i̸̷̴c̸̷̵e̴̵̶?"

The unexpected rumble pulls Copia right out of his body. Worse, the sight of what's behind causes him to jump another mile.

_(The Ghouls, he thinks, are falling apart. There is nothing left to hold them together._

_"E̵x̷c̸e̸p̸t̵ ̷y̷o̶u̸," Behemoth tried to assure him, the other day._

_"N̸͖̬̮̓o̸̍ͅt̷̛̙͓̼ ̵͍̊͛'̸̝̺̒f̵̹̜͕̓ă̵̬̦̹͑ḷ̴̔͘ͅl̸͔͚͋̀ ̴̭̻̒͜ă̵̻̲p̵̡͔â̴̡̲r̶̤̆͒͝ṯ̷̱'̴̧͔̋̒," Amdusias added. "L̴̡̰̑͝e̶̳̦̚͠t̵̬̰̿͝ṯ̸̙̿͠i̸̯̙̠̋n̴͙͔͙͒̍g̵̜̼͊ ̶̼͝g̸̣̹̤͂͘ö̴̩̯̓͛."_

_"W̵e̶'̸r̶e̸ ̸t̷r̸y̸i̵n̸g̴," Behemoth told him._

_Amdusias had needed to shift his mask, push the horn back into his forehead. "Ẅ̸͔̝͎́ͅẻ̵̞͍͂̕ͅ'̴̢̤̯̜͌l̷̡͖̅ḽ̴̖͕̪̈̃ ̸̙̯̯̗̔̅͌̎t̴̟͎͝r̵̦̙͋͌͠y̶̨͔̖̋͂̏."_

_T̷̩̓̏͛h̶̦̍̌e̸̲̠̒͋̑̕͠y̸̽̈́̒̑̈́͂͠ ̵̖̼̈͛̃̈́̀͝d̸̲̿̈́̕ọ̶̧̤̃ń̴̡̧̛̠̒̌́̏'̴̘͊̈̇̊͊̚t̵́̈͗́̽ ̵̛̹̋̆̒͑͠͠s̶̢̫̲̄̌̈́͒̿̔p̸̧̬̫͆͂͜ę̸̝̎̐a̶̳̒̿͂͋̋̓͆k̴͉̞͋̃̿͌͋ ̴̛͈͆̏̈́̀̔f̸̛͇̰̓̄̽̉̋̚ô̷͇̿̚r̶̤̗̆͊ ̸͘m̷͖̱̃̓̂͘e̴̥̍̒͛̾ͅ!̵̈́," Beleth had spat, stomping away from it all.)_

To Behemoth's credit, he always appeared to be just barely not bursting at the seams. Now, though, he struggles. But it's because he can smell Copia's fragile nerves sparking, fraying that he does what he can to stay whole.

"What, uh..." All the words are stuck in Copia's throat, strangled by at least a hundred breeds of guilt. It's worse when the Ghoul takes initiative, unbuttons the collar of Copia's cassock for him. He can breathe, but at what cost? He doesn't need this. Not now. "What does that mean to you?"

"Y̷o̸u̸ ̷n̸e̵v̶e̶r̵ ̸g̶o̵ ̸i̵n̶," Behemoth points out. "Y̷o̴u̸ ̵j̸u̸s̵t̸ ̵k̸e̸e̷p̷ ̶l̸o̷o̵k̴i̵n̵g̴."

"Oh. Ha ha." It's not even a laugh, it's just two noises he makes next to each other. No humour, no effort. "It's....you know, just, uh. I don't know, not where I need to be. Right now."

Behemoth is taller than he was a moment ago, forced to bend to put the chasm where his mouth usually sits near Copia's ear. "Y̸o̸u̸ ̷a̸r̸e̶ ̴P̸a̴p̴a̸."

A worn, bound copy of _The Egyptian Book Of The Dead_ sits on top of one of the paper stacks neatly cluttering the desk. _The Book Of Emerging Forth Into The Light_ , Copia remembers. The inside cover says _Papa Emeritus Nihil_ as many times as fills up the empty space in his mother's handwriting.

* * *

The Ghoulettes, like Beleth, have bound their bodies to no promises. And yet, even as monsters, their grief seems the most human.

_("S̵͎͍̊o̸̯͉̅ ̵͚̮̅̓l̸͕̇o̷͙̞̫̊̕n̷͈͖̾͒͜g̶͎̠͓̾̅̆," Amdusias had rumbled._

_"L̷o̷n̵g̵e̴r̷ ̷t̷h̸a̸n̷ ̶a̴l̷l̶ ̴o̶f̴ ̸u̸s̸," Behemoth agreed, doing Copia a great kindness in attempting to make him feel included. "S̷i̷n̸c̸e̸ ̸s̸h̷e̷ ̴w̵a̴s̸ ̸y̴o̸u̷n̵g̵."_

_Was Sister ever young? Copia couldn't picture it._

_T̵̼͚̬̏̒̈́͒̃͐͌̿ǒ̴̲̮̯̀͗͂̈o̴̺̦̐̕͝ ̶̮̮͐̄s̴̢̹̻̔̓̌̍̽͋͜ͅo̸͕̒͛̐̋ḟ̸̧͎̠̓͐̒ẗ̵̞͚́͊̋͋̈́̚!" Beleth sneered.)_

He finds them - again - in the crypt. The space is huge, but the two of them have opted to leave no room for anyone else. 

Copia clears his throat, but they don't acknowledge him. His mouth is so dry when he tries again: "There, uh. The ritual, it's -" Do they even know he's there? This isn't enough. Not anymore. "Ṿ̷̢̢̂́i̵̡̧͉̺̖̪̽͊͜͜n̷̢̗̠̤̮̕ͅe̵̡̨̛̻͎̹̻͊a̶̻̜̻̓͑."

The gigantic maned shape emits a sound that reaches the ceiling and vibrates through Copia's entire skeleton. But it turns and bows its head. 

"B̵̮̘̲̯͕̈́̽͑̒̊ų̷̨̨̑̊̾̈́̆͗̍͝e̴̻̰̗͙͈̪̎̃̊̅͜r̴͔̹̙̃̎̐̎͌̄͂ͅͅ."

It becomes a familiar _she_ again, putting away the extra appendages so she can take his hands with a pair of her own. Even through his gloves, he can feel the cold, feel bone and nail in all the wrong places. But he doesn't mind holding on.

"P̴̜̌l̸͎͗e̵̦̊ả̴̖s̴̟͝e̶̡͘ ̴̗͐u̴̡̇n̷̞̍d̴͗͜é̸̤r̷̥͛s̵͇̓t̵̹͠a̸̤̐n̷͔̋d̵̙̆," Buer begs. "W̷̗̍e̴͍̽ ̵̭̔d̷͈͋ö̵̙ ̵̥͂l̴̥̆o̵̲̽v̷̲͒e̶̮̕ ̵̤̏y̵̺͒ȏ̵̯ṵ̶͊."

Vinea's voice come from everywhere: "W̶e̵ ̵a̶l̶w̶a̶y̵s̵ ̶w̶i̵l̶l̴. S̶h̷e̵ ̸a̶s̷k̵e̴d̸ ̴u̷s̴ ̵t̵o̵. A̴n̸ ̷e̴a̵s̴y̵ ̴r̵e̴q̶u̷e̶s̴t̵."

"B̵̮̉u̴̹͒t̷̫͠ ̸̦w̷͚͠e̸̮͠ ̴̬̈l̸̩̊ǒ̶̼v̷̹͊e̵͚͛ ̷̬̑ _h̴̝̽e̷̩̽ř̸̢_. Ś̶̮h̵͂͜e̶̥̋ ̵̥͠w̸̙͝ǎ̶̯s̴̖̽ ̴͌ͅo̸͕͛ṳ̴̈́r̷̬͒ -"

The word Copia thinks is _mother_. It makes the most sense to him, at least, but all he says is, "I know."

He feels fur on the back of his neck, loses balance as something that isn't a lion rubs against him.

"S̶i̷t̵ ̵w̴i̵t̷h̷ ̶t̸h̵e̸ ̷s̷t̶o̸n̵e̴ ̷t̴h̷e̵y̴ ̸a̴r̴e̶ ̴n̸o̴t̵ ̵i̵n̷,̷ ̵i̶f̶ ̵y̴o̵u̷ ̴l̵i̴k̵e̴," Vinea offers, gliding towards the entryway. "W̴e̶ ̵l̸i̴k̶e̴ ̵t̷o̵ ̸b̶e̴ ̷n̶e̴a̴r̸ ̴t̸h̶e̸ ̶i̴d̴e̸a̵ ̶o̷f̵ ̶h̴e̵r̷,̶ ̸b̴u̷t̶ ̸w̴e̴ ̷c̶a̶n̵ ̸m̸o̵u̶r̶n̴ ̴f̷r̴o̶m̸ ̶a̵n̶y̴w̷h̶e̸r̶e̷.̴ ̴ ̵S̵h̴e̴ ̵w̵o̷u̶l̷d̵ ̸b̵e̵ ̴d̴i̸s̸m̸a̷y̵e̵d̸ ̵t̸o̵ ̷k̵n̴o̷w̵ ̵w̴e̵ ̸l̷i̶n̵g̴e̴r̶."

"Lurk," Copia suggests. Like too-curious, overly affectionate cats, is what she always said. He jumps at the remembered sound of her hands clapping together to shoo away a swarm of hovering Ghouls, to chase him out with them, if she thought they were crowding her. Papa never minded (the Ghouls), but his mother preferred to keep company rather than allow it to keep her.

Buer is all legs and giggles, scuttling away. "Ḃ̴͙u̴̲̓t̵͚͌ ̸̲̓s̷̛̱h̴̩͌e̸͑͜ ̶͇i̶̲̚s̸̭ ̵̳͂n̷̬̄ỏ̸̝t̴̙͊ ̵̖̉t̶̓͜h̴͙̀e̵̲r̶͊ͅe̴̘͛ ̴̠̀t̴̯͑ŏ̸̬ ̴̱͋s̵͔͛c̷͈͗ỏ̵̖l̵͒͜d̷̻̂ ̵͙̃ù̴̪s̵̝̊.̵̠͛ ̶̖̄ ̷͖̓T̸̨̋ă̵̩k̶̨̒e̷̪̐ ̸̘͝a̶͔͛d̸͛͜v̸͚á̴̠ń̶̼t̶͎̏a̸̪͊g̵͎͌e̸̯̅."

But when they're gone, Copia only thinks of how quickly he can make an exit and how furious his mother might be with him for making sure that the sarcophagus was big enough to hold her and his father in the same space. Forever.

He bows out - literally - and begs forgiveness for the intrusion in his farewells. "Papa. Sister."

* * *

All three of Buné's heads agree: "H̸̼ë̶̱́ ̷̘̽s̶̲͂h̸̯͂o̶͎͘ǘ̴͔l̶̯̍d̷̦͊ ̴̝͊b̷͍̈́e̶̛̪ ̴̐ͅF̸̫̕ő̵̢u̸̮͊r̴͖̓."

Ribesal's emphatic nod shakes the stage. "E̸͆̈́̏a̷̓̌̇̈́̍̈́̿͌̔͝r̵̿̃̈́̐͒͋̔̓͝n̷̾͐͐̀̒̀͋̇ė̴͊̃̊̒̉́͝͠d̴̓͗̋."

"Ň̶̨̛͇̬̤̥̝͉̆́̈́̃̄͆̒̐̿̈́̀̈́̐̌̅̕͘͠͝Ơ̴̠͖̐̈́̈͂̅̍̈͂̈́̊̇̍̈́͌̃̋̍̒̂̍͝." The gremlin-sized fire in Behemoth's grip thrashes but cannot spread. 

"W̸̖͈̼̾͝h̷͕͓̔y̸͈̞̅̋̆ ̶͓̬̌n̴͉͗o̷͖̖̅͗͝t̵͍̉? Y̷̭̙͠o̴̠͂͛̕u̷͚͉͌͒͋ ̶̫͍̐l̴̻̝͆o̶̲̺̻͗̌v̷̡͠e̵̪͉͉͊͘d̸͈̽̑̕ ̶̢́N̴̳̆i̷͖̒́̈ḧ̶͙̠͂i̷̘̙͝ͅl̵̲̰̘͑̌̑,̸̟̈̀̆ ̸̬͋t̴̥̋̈̕ō̶͗͝ͅõ̴̫̚͝," Amdusias quietly reminds.

Copia, sitting on the steps in the middle of the set, makes the grave error of exhaling too loud.

The Ghouls are staring and he, as always, wishes they wouldn't. It's bad enough to see five emotionless faces glaring back at him, heads all cocked at the exact same angle. He would rather their masks, though, even if it means staring at himself in them. He can't tell where everyone's heads are now, only that he's counted a different _too many_ each time he's tried.

"W̷h̶a̸t̷?" Behemoth is the only who thinks to ask.

"Nothing," Copia is forced to tell them and then wonder if that will count. If that, too, adds to his father's immortality.

Beleth seethes, glowing blue. "W̸̡̘͈̅͐̉̕͜͠e̵͇͝ ̷̖͗́̆͝͝d̶̛̛̰͆͊̔͌̽ơ̶̰͕͌̒̎n̷̠̐͘͝'̵̡̦͔̈́̓̆̃͑̌͐ṯ̴͊͒̓̐͐ ̶͂͂̕͝s̸̢͕͊̓e̶͓̔͛r̸͇̃̉̓͐v̸͓̀̉̀͋͑e̷͂̄̋͒ ̸̬̈́̈́̈̇̽E̸̝m̶͎̟̈̇̍͂̆͘ḛ̴̃ȓ̶́͐̇̚͝i̸̩͌̏̈t̶̒u̸̢̿̑̐̽̉ͅs̸̲̝͌͝!" he hisses. "W̵̛͙̅͆͛͌e̶̾͋̒͒͠͠͝ ̷̎̏͌̽̔̄̍̕s̶̈́̔͊͐͒͊̕ë̵̖̅̆̆͗̀̈́̃r̵̈͐̄̂̚v̷̬͊̂̍e̷͐̒̀̈́ -"

"I know," Copia says. A human would have asked him to speak up, but he's too tired to pretend about the company he keeps.

"F̸̛̛͈̣̬̤͂͌̈́̒̽̎̐͆͘O̵̡͕̰̖͗̅͂̋́͌̐͒͝Ů̴̪͑̉R̵̗̿͌̈̿̉̂̈́̓." All heat, no warmth. Flames lick the sides of Copia's face. It doesn't feel great, but leaves no lasting damage. That has to count for something, too. "Y̸͖̤̊͘o̷̜̓̍̉͊̔͑̈́̏̓̔ŭ̶̬̞̦̜̌̿̑̀̌̅̓͐̓̚ ̴͓͋̋̃̉̈́̀͘Ḑ̷̨̝̎̓̊͆͠͝O̷̹͗͑̓̔̕̚N̶̛̬̈͂̉̒̃̊̕͠'̶͌̌̏̓T̴̆̈́̓."

"H̵e̸ ̸h̸a̴s̶n̵'̸t̵ -" Behemoth's voice rises as he readjusts his grip to latch onto something Copia can't see. Even without a shape, he gets the impression of Beleth being scruffed. It's familiar enough that it takes his surmounting internal panic from _imminent_ to _on its way, eventually_. "Y̵o̷u̷ ̷ _n̶e̷e̸d̸ ̵_ t̸o̵ -" 

Never mind, that's an appeal to him and now the fear and bile live in the dip between his collarbones again. "I _know_."

The lights flicker. Or - well. No. The Ghouls do. Quick as a flash of lightning (and gone, just as fast), Copia is in Hell, surrounded by this court of demons who he can only comprehend in their completely natural states because they fit their brief setting. Beyond them, he catches a swirl of white and red and laughter that is equal parts joy, relief, and orgasm.

He excuses himself from the chapel in a hurry. If anyone wants to know what just happened, they don't ask. They let him go. He doesn't know what's happening, either, but there's a voice in his head that reminds him this is always true.

At the door, he stops. "Oh."

"W̷h̸a̷t̸?"

Copia remembers, suddenly, the last time he saw his parents together, alive.

They were dancing.

"Nothing," he mumbles, and leaves.

* * *

He tells them: "Imperator."

"T̴h̷e̴ - ?"

"Second," Copia clarifies to the floor. "The second. She was the first."

The fire is the size of a housecat, swatting furiously at the perfect hem of Copia's new robes. "S̵̟̐̇͗͌̎̈̍͗̿͋̈́̔a̵̻̓̔̽̐̂̎̂̀̅̔͘͘y̸̢̓̏̿̈̇̆̚͝ ̸̹͈̝̏̉̈́̇̇̏̀̂i̴̇̐̑͒̆t̴̛͎̽̿̐̈́̃̈́̂̇,̸̧̢̯͋̊͛̐̑̈́͘͠ ̸̉͗t̸̛̗̾̄̀̋̾h̶̑͂̏̾͑̀̏͌͌́ë̵̕̚n̴̞̔͌͋͑̆̅̈́̈́̇͌̉͝" Beleth demands. "Y̵̺̟̎́̅̋̈́͜͝ŏ̵̤̦̏́̋̌ű̸̲͔̿̓̑̔̔͆͝ ̷̆͛h̸͇̼͐̑͌͛͗̈́̐͠a̶̡͈̝̽̏͆̇̒͑̃͝v̷̟͆e̵̪͉̟͛͋̑̆̕͘͘ ̶̟̈̂̓͝t̶̓͊̎̓̌͛o̶̪͌̈́̋͑͊̃͘ ̷̣͆̈͌̌͂̚̚͠t̵̿̅̅͒͂̚ḙ̴̹̓̒̑͛͊l̵͈̄̏l̷̎̍̑̽̉̅ ̴̨̟̆̒̿́̕͠ͅü̸̂̑̿͝s̴̜̅̊̉͌̄̄͛͆͠!̸̗̅̆̌͐̚͠!"

Since he took the band from Three, people have insisted on calling him by his dead brothers' name. In their ignorance, so many promoted him far before his time. There will always be someone crying "Papa Emeritus" to him, at the macabre funerary scene in the queue before shows, in obscure corners of the internet. Whether he wanted to or not, his father will live forever.

But Copia is his mother's child. And announces so: "Papa Imperator II."

To the untrained eye, the monsters whose audience he holds are human (..."human"...) again. Copia can feel Beleth's scowl in the tilt of his head, but the demon retreats to pick up his guitar and stand and wait expectantly. The rest of the Ghouls, behind their unreadable masks, are smiling.

* * *

Copia has wanted his own paint since he was old enough to understand that some day, the boys he only in retrospect can see were always his brothers would earn it and he would not. 

The skull he is wiping off his face belongs to no one else but it doesn't feel like it belongs to him yet, either.

"P̷a̸p̷a̸."

He would have thought himself too tired to be startled. And yet.

Behemoth helps him out of his mantle and his shoulders drop, even without the weight of it to hold them down.

"I̸s̷ ̴i̴t̸ ̸b̴e̷t̷t̸e̸r̶,̷ ̴n̵o̴w̷?̷"

Copia thinks on the Ghoulettes' insistence that they've entombed an empty coffin. He thinks of waltzing, wasted time, and eternity.

"No."


End file.
